


Of Snakes and Tequila

by Umi_no_arawashi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2483792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umi_no_arawashi/pseuds/Umi_no_arawashi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bored Slytherins decide to spend an evening in muggle London. Drinking, revelations, identity crises and much silliness ensue. Takes place during an alternate version of seventh year, where nothing much happened after Ootp.</p>
<p>m/m, Draco-centric, fluff. Warnings for… not much, actually. Probably language, kissing, and under-age drinking for Americans?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was the last Hogsmeade weekend of Term, it was very late in the afternoon, and Draco Malfoy was bored. The seventh year Slytherins had all congregated in the upstairs room of the Three Broomsticks, huddled in a tight group around the fire. Goyle had been given the delicate mission of guarding the door against unwelcome members of other houses or poisonous younger students, yet the older snakelings were subdued and silent. 

Draco himself was, naturally, at the centre of the group, draped artistically over an armchair. His head was thrown back, resting on Pansy Parkinson’s thigh.

“I’m bored,” he announced suddenly, breaking the mournful silence. “We have to do… something. Or I’ll go insane.”

Several Slytherins nodded in agreement.

“Yes, but there’s nothing to do, Draco darling,” cooed Pansy, stroking Draco’s hair like he was a pet kneazle. “It’s snowing outside…and besides, Hogsmeade is simply so mind-numbingly dull...”

“We could go to Zonko’s,” rumbled Crabbe from his corner. 

“Oh, do shut up, Vincent, that place is for babies,” said Millicent Bulstrode, tossing a screwed up piece of parchment at him. 

“You’re right, actually, Millie,” drawled Draco, sitting up. “This whole place is boring and designed to cater to Third years. No, I want to go out, I want to get drunk, and I want to shag. Not necessarily in that order, either.”

An admiring sigh went round the room. Draco smirked to himself. The effect was only slightly marred by the fact all the shagging he’d ever done had been a few quick gropes with Pansy, and that to be honest he hadn’t really seen the point. But the important thing was no one else in the Snake Pit suspected their great leader wasn’t as worldly as he liked to appear, and even Pansy was looking a little jealous. 

“Well… we could always go to London,” said Zabini, speaking up for once.

“London?” Everyone sat up.

“But…. Blaise, how are we supposed to get there?” asked Pansy with a particularly unbecoming wide-eyed expression on her face.

“We Apparate, silly girl,” said Draco, shooting her a murderous glance. “That is, the ones of us who know how to do it…”

“But… we’re not allowed, Draco…”

“Pansy. One, how in Hades would they know? And two, I’m Head Boy. If I decide we’re allowed to do it, then we’re allowed to do it, surely? The only thing is that I don’t trust any of you not to splinch themselves…” He looked round the room. “Who has their Licences?” 

There was a quick show of hands. Enough to make a decent group, certainly, and Draco wouldn’t have to worry about people getting split down the middle. He himself had got his Licence as soon as he turned seventeen.

“But, Draco…” said Tracey Davis in her small, piping voice. “We’ll get caught for sure, won’t we? Everyone in London will know we’re supposed to be at Hogwarts!”

Draco considered this for a second.

“Blaise?” he asked.

Blaise Zabini sat up with a grin. “Not the slightest problem. Everyone in Diagon Alley will know we’re supposed to be at school, sure, but we just have to go somewhere where no one will know or care. Somewhere muggle.”

A collective gasp went round the room.

“Steady on, Blaise. Muggles? We can’t possibly go mix with the plebes.” 

“Why not?” said Zabini. “They have booze as well, and actually, it’s not half bad. And girls. And really, does it matter whether who you’re shagging is a witch or not, as long as she’s hot?”

The Slytherin boys sniggered. The girls looked sour. 

“But… you don’t think that, surely, Draco darling?” whined Pansy.

“Don’t be so naïve, Pansy,” Draco said, waving his hand in what he fancied was a worldly, jaded manner. “Just because muggles are inferior doesn’t mean they can’t be shagged.”

“Exactly,” smiled Zabini. “I know this place in London, miles from Diagon. Muggle music and everything. Come on, it’ll be a laugh!”

Draco leaned back and steepled his fingers. His father tended to do that when thinking and Draco found it rather elegant. 

In truth, though, he wasn’t that sure about the idea. But the other Slytherins were all looking at him expectantly, and he had to make a decision quickly. 

“Fine. We’ll go to Zabini’s muggle place, then. After all, it can’t possibly be worse than here.”

* * *

After deliberations, only five of the Seventh years decided to go, Draco included. 

“But, Draco, what if you need us?” asked Gregory Goyle, furrowing his heavy brows as they congregated behind the pub, where they had decided they could Disapparate safely. 

Draco fastened his heavy black fur-lined cloak around his shoulders. 

“Nonsense. I can manage pathetic muggles by myself, thank you very much.”

“Actually, though, Draco…” said Blaise tentatively.

“Yes?” Draco said, idly rearranging his snake signet ring so the emerald eyes glittered attractively.

“I think… perhaps we ought to do something about our clothes. Especially yours, in fact…”

Draco frowned. “What’s wrong with my clothes?” He was dressed particularly fine that day, he thought, especially his new sable cloak, which had been an early Christmas present from his mother. The black leather lace-up trousers, though, had been bought on his own pocket money, since his mother disapproved of tight trousers. In Draco’s opinion, they rather suited him. 

Made his arse look fairly spectacular, in fact, though he said it himself. 

Blaise plunged on nonetheless. “Well, they’re a little… wizardy, I think, for muggles, aren’t they?”

“I wouldn’t know, would I?” said Draco smugly. “Besides, I don’t own muggle clothes.”

“Oh, but you know, Draco, Blaise is right!” squeaked Daphne Greengrass excitedly. “And actually… well, if you let me, perhaps I could… change our clothes a little bit? To make them more suitable?”

Draco looked at her suspiciously. “How so?”

“Well…. The think is, I bought a muggle magazine, a fashion magazine, from one of the Ravenclaw mudbloods… For research, you understand,” she added hastily.

“Of course.”

“And well… it was called “Vague”, or something, and it had lots of those weird muggle pictures…”

“Ah, yes. Photographs that don’t move,” said Draco wisely. He had read about those recently in a history of muggle twentieth century his father had made him read. 

“Exactly! Anyway, in it, I saw some clothes I thought might look good…especially on you, Draco.” She blushed and Pansy kicked her swiftly in the shins. “Ouch. And… well, anyway, you know how I always do my own clothes, I’m really good at casting glamours on things?”

Draco thought for a second. “Fine,” he said amicably. “But do someone else first. Zabini, since it’s all his idea.”

Daphne nodded, her cheeks pink with excitement. “All right.” She pulled out her wand and started casting some complicated spell. Draco leaned against the walls, trying to appear as bored with the proceedings as possible. In fact, his heart was beating hard in his chest. He’d hardly ever seen muggle London before, and then only from the confines of his father’s ministry car. 

Daphne finished her spell, and Zabini’s clothes glowed briefly, rearranging themselves around him. 

There was a sudden, muted silence. 

“Well… these are _tight_ …” said Blaise, shifting uncomfortably. 

“Aren’t they?’ said Daphne proudly. “They’re called Johns. I thought they looked good.”

“Well… I guess they do, but… Hey, you even got the little metal buttons right!” said Blaise, staring at his waistband. 

Draco’s eyes slipped down to Zabini’s crotch. Yes, buttons, indeed. Round and clearly metallic. Covering what was a rather nice bulge, as well. But then again, Zabini was hung, wasn’t he? Draco had sneaked one or two peaks in the showers, and well, it had seemed quite impressive. The Johns looked rather nice around his waist, as well, low and tight. Very low. If Zabini raised his arms just a little bit, perhaps his stomach might even show a little bit?...

“Draco?... Draco!” snapped Pansy. 

“What? I was looking at the Johns!” said Draco defensively. 

Pansy’s mouth tightened into a thin line. Entirely unreasonably, in Draco’s opinion. After all, there was nothing wrong in noticing things like that. It was… attention to detail, that was all. And surely, that had to be a good thing, in a natural leader such as himself. 

Meanwhile, Daphne had finished transforming the others’ clothes. Theodore Nitt, who made up the fifth member of their little group, got some variation of what she had made for Blaise, although it didn’t really do anything for him. He looked even weedier than usual, and the unseemly tight sweater that Zabini had filled really rather nicely just looked sad and baggy on old Teddy. Daphne and Pansy were the only girls going, and she had given them some very short skirts, and extremely low cut tops. Half of Pansy’s rather impressive cleavage was showing. 

“So, Draco-darling, what do you think?” Pansy asked, with a little twirl that made her skirt flutter. 

“I think… you look a little like Granger in that.” Pansy gave an outraged little shriek. “Also, you’re going to catch your death of cold out there. It’s snowing, haven’t you noticed?”

“But, Draco, we’re apparating close to Zabini’s bar thing, anyway…” she pouted. 

“Whatever. It looks unhealthy, but that’s your problem. Don’t come running to me when you catch pneumonia.”

Daphne’s eyes glinted. “Oh, I know, I’ll make you a coat, then, Draco! I saw just the one…”

“Greengrass, I warn you, if you make me look bad, I’m turning you into a cockroach,” said Draco as she approached him, wand raised. 

“Never you fear,” she grinned, then began her spell. Draco felt his clothes shiver, then crawl strangely around his body, tightening in odd places. He felt a tug on his finger and watched, fascinated, as the snake crawled once around his finger before resolving itself into a simple silver band, the emeralds joining to form a single round stone in the middle.

Daphne stepped back, glowing with pride. “There. Isn’t that nice?”

“Wow, Draco, you’re…” gasped Pansy. 

Draco eyed himself in a conveniently placed window. His cloak had changed into a straight, three-quarter length black coat, of something like cashmere, with a high collar that complimented his neck. His trousers had become a kind of leather version of the Johns, so tight he was slightly afraid to move at first. After taking a few steps, though, he decided he rather liked the effect. His sweater seemed to have unexpectedly turned blue, and at first he was going to berate Daphne about that – Malfoys always wore black, after all - but then he caught his eyes in the window. The sweater made them look blue, almost brilliantly so, instead of the dull grey colour they usually were. He smiled at his reflection. 

“Yes, well, not that bad, actually, I suppose…” he said nonchalantly.

“You look absolutely gorgeous!” said Pansy, throwing herself in his arms. He bent her slightly backwards and kissed her, surveying the effect in the mirror while she made some kind of girly squeaky sound against his mouth. Yes, definitively, blue suited him. He looked hot. 

He pulled Pansy back up and sneered slightly at the others for effect. They all looked overwhelmed by his greatness, which was exactly as it should be. Well, except for Zabini, but then he never looked impressed by much.

“Shall we, then?” he said, pulling out his wand.

* * *

They apparated in a small, dirty back alley behind the club. Around them rose the unfamiliar sounds of muggle London, the roar of motorcars, the odd, high pitched siren of a fire truck. The acrid smell of exhaust was everywhere. The small group huddled close together.

“Draco… are you sure this is a good idea?” moaned Pansy, latching on to Draco’s arm.

“Of course,” he replied confidently. He hoped no one had noticed how he had jumped at the siren. “We have nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, though, we should probably be careful with wands. We don’t want the Ministry on our trail.”

“Bunch of muggle-lovers,” snorted Teddy Nott. 

“Sure, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful. We could get in real trouble if we got caught, you know? Oh, and also, here, there’s some muggle money,” Blaise said, handing out a few unfamiliar looking pieces of paper. 

The Slytherins examined them curiously.

“Where did you get those?” asked Daphne.

“Oh, I just keep some around, it’s always handy – they don’t accept proper money in there.”

“You come here often, then?”

“Sometimes. It’s fun. Besides, it doesn’t hurt to see how the other half of the world lives.”

“They live like animals, Blaise, they’re stupid muggles. Right, then,” said Draco, stuffing the money in his pocket. “So lead the way.”

There was a short line at the entrance of the bar, and a very tall, thick-set muggle guarding the door. 

“How do we get past him?” asked Pansy anxiously.

“Just… follow my lead, alright?” answered Blaise, joining the line. Draco shrugged and followed. 

“Hang on –” said the muggle when they reached the door. “Are you all eighteen?”

“Of course,” grinned Blaise. "They're with me, Ed."

“This one doesn’t look eighteen to me,” the muggle said, frowning at Draco. “Do you have some ID?”

“Some… what?”

“ID. Driver’s licence, student card?”

“And why, exactly, would I need that?”

“Because if you don’t have it, I can’t let you in.”

“It’s ok,” said Blaise hurriedly. “I know him, he’s eighteen, no problem.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Pansy anxiously.

“I can’t let you in unless you carry some proof you’re eighteen and that’s final,” said the muggle, crossing his arms firmly across his chest.

“Oh, I have proof,” said Draco, reaching for his back pocket. “ _Imperio_.”

“Draco!” said Blaise, scandalised. 

“What?” Draco shrugged. “Now, let us in.”

“Of course,” said the muggle, a glazed, puzzled expression on his face. “Please come in.”

Draco smirked and walked in, Pansy and Daphne giggling nervously behind him. 

“You… you can’t do that!” hissed Blaise as Draco took off his coat. “That was an Unforgivable!” 

“And? It hardly counts, it was only on a muggle.”

Blaise suddenly looked serious. “It still counts, Draco. You can’t do that! And I’m certainly not taking you in if you’re going to be hexing people left right and centre.”

“Oh, spare me the lecture, Zabini.”

“No, I’m serious,” Blaise said, taking one step towards Draco. “Give me your wand.”

Draco sneered. “Oh, come off it.”

“No, really. The problem with you, Draco, is you think with your wand. And we’ll get caught because of you.”

“My mother will kill me!” shrieked Daphne shrilly.

“Oh, fine, whatever. You’re all a bunch of cowards,” Draco snarled, slamming his wand into Zabini’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you, Draco,” said Blaise, pocketing the wand. “I’ll take good care of it.”

“Well, lose it and you’re dead.”

* * *

The club was dark, loud, but fortunately fairly empty at the moment. Draco squinted, trying to get his bearings. There seemed to be some sort of bar to one side, and a dance floor right in the middle. Pansy was practically jumping up and down with excitement. 

“Oh, come on, Draco, let’s go dance!” she cried.

Draco scowled. “Well, _you_ can, if you want. _I_ am going to sit down over there.”

“Hang on, I’m coming with you,” said Blaise. 

“I’ll… go dance with the girls, shall I?” said Nott, staring at Daphne and Pansy who had managed to find themselves a spot on the dance floor and were enthusiastically bouncing around. 

“If you must,” Draco snapped. “And try to keep Pansy from making such an utter arse of herself!” he called out as Nott left them.

“You’re pissed off, aren’t you?” said Blaise quietly. 

“Me? Certainly not,” said Draco behind painfully clenched teeth.

“Look, Draco, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. If you want your wand back…”

“No, keep my wand, Zabini, why don’t you? In fact, perhaps you’d like my Head Boy badge to go with it, as well?” 

Draco locked eyes with Blaise, shooting him a murderous glance. Annoyingly, the other boy refused to look intimidated, but instead smiled and grabbed Draco by the elbow.

“Come on, Draco, don’t be angry. I’ll buy you a drink.”

Draco tore his arm away. “Certainly not.”

"You look like you need a drink."

"I..." Actually, now that he thought about it, it didn't seem like a bad idea at all. He had never had a really strong drink. For some reason, his father still seemed to treat him very much like a child when it came to liquor, and refused to serve him anything stronger than wine, when he was fairly liberal with the firewhiskey for himself after dinner. Which was patently unfair. Draco was seventeen and an adult.

"Hey, Bruce," said the bartender, a muscular man wearing an awful lot of spiky-looking jewellery in his face, as Blaise sat at the bar. It was a little quieter there.

"Hi, Paul," said Blaise casually to the bartender. 

"Bruce?" snickered Draco in Blaise's ear. He only shrugged in reply. There was something so very annoying about how cool, how very much in his element Blaise was. The name thing, for instance. Draco wasn't at all sure he'd have had the presence of mind to chose another name. Though now he thought about it, "Draco" didn't sound very muggle-ish at all. But he couldn't really think of a suitable muggle name off the cuff. Daemon? Was that more muggle-y? He'd have to ask Blaise later. And that was irritating. His father was right, not knowing about muggles really could put him at a disadvantage.

"What do you want to drink?" asked Blaise.

"I don't know. Something strong. You decide." What on earth did muggles drink? He really had no idea.

"Oh? All right." Zabini had the nerve to look amused. "Two tequila shots, please."

"Found yourself a pretty one, I see. Good for you," said the bartender before pouring them their drinks. Ha, then clearly this Paul had seen them come in with the girls. Blaise was more than welcome to Daphne. But Pansy was Draco's official not-exactly-girlfriend, so that was out of the question. He'd have to make it very clear at some point. He couldn't really trust Zabini to respect the pecking order.

"Yeah, well, we'll see," said Blaise. He gave one of the glasses to Draco, who sneered at it. It was tiny. There was also some sort of arrangement with lime and salt. Some odd muggle notion of hospitality, no doubt.

Draco picked up the small glass. "There's not a lot of this, is there?" he asked critically.

"Yes, well, you said you wanted something strong. This is strong." There was something almost mocking in Zabini's voice. Draco would just have to show him why you don't mess with a Malfoy. In one smooth gesture, he picked up the glass, downed it, and slammed it back on the counter - perhaps, to be truthful, a tad harder than he'd planned.

Salazar Slytherin's sweet balls, but what the hell was that thing? He felt as though he had swallowed molten lava. And the taste of it - Gods, muggles were clearly a lot stronger than he had imagined. It took every single shred of control he had to keep his face impassible. Though his eyes were watering pretty badly. Still, Blaise didn't seem to notice, and actually had the decency to look slightly impressed.

“It tastes better with salt and lime, actually. Like this.” Blaise demonstrated. The awful taste didn’t seem to phase him at all. Then again, biting into a lime probably did help.

“Right. I see. Get me another one.”

“Are you sure? You do realise this is fairly strong, don’t you?”

“Blai- _Bruce_ \- who's in charge, here?”

“All right, then, if you’re sure. But I did warn you.’ Blaise looked like he was going to say something else, then thought twice about it. Good. He just needed to be reminded of who was the leader of this little expedition. Besides, Draco was feeling perfectly fine. There was nothing to this drinking thing, clearly.

The second glass of this tequila thing was actually a lot nicer. It was clearly an acquired taste. And yes, the salt and lime did improve the taste significantly. In fact, there was something distinctly more-ish about them. Paul, who suddenly seemed like a really nice person for a muggle, understood that perfectly, and refilled his glass without him asking. Blaise still said nothing.

Draco surveyed his surroundings. Actually, the place wasn’t that bad, in a strange sort of way. There was something almost congenial about it. Take that bartending muggle, for exemple. If one ignored the fact he was a filthy, subhuman creature, he was not entirely awful to look at. From a purely theoretical point of view. And the pointy metal things he had inserted in his ears and eyebrows gave him an interestingly dangerous look. As to what he was wearing… well, Draco had thought the clothes Daphne had created had been revealing, but the muggle was wearing some sort of clinging, half-transparent top that really left very little to the imagination, and -Merlin, was there actually a metal ring through that man’s left nipple?

“Could you please stop staring?” snapped Blaise.

The muggle - Paul - smiled. “I really don’t mind. Though you should be careful with this one, Bruce. I’m not sure he’s boyfriend material.”

“What did he say?” asked Draco. It was possible the drink was kicking in just a little bit. He was definitely feeling a lot more relaxed.

“Nothing,” said Blaise, who for some reason was looking distinctly cross. “Let’s go sit down in one of the booths, ok?”

“Sure,” said Draco amicably. It was a good idea. Nice big comfy chairs. Not all wobbly like those bar stools. Though a thought suddenly struck him. “Hang on, what about the tequila, though?”

“You go sit down, I’ll bring us some drinks.” Good old Zabini. He was really friendly, when he wanted to be.

“All right then,” said Draco. He slid down the stool. The booths were really not far at all, which was fine, because there was something a little fuzzy about the floor. And he had been right, the chairs were comfy. And it was pleasantly dark. A really good place, in fact, from which to observe the floor. The two girls were still making absolute prats of themselves on the dance floor, although Teddy was doing his best to look even stupider. The other patrons weren’t dancing. Most seemed to be lounging in the deep leather chairs, nursing drinks, and generally looking very relaxed. And very friendly. 

Blaise sat down next to him, holding - thank Hades - more drinks. Different drinks. Pretty drinks. Pretty drinks in pretty glasses decorated with salt. “Those are margaritas. If you like tequila, you’ll like them.” 

Draco tried his drink. Very yummy indeed. “Blaishe,” he remarked - his tongue seemed to have decided not to work properly-, “there doesn’t sheem to be many girls in this place.”

“Well, of course not, Draco.”

“Why?” he asked, tilting his head to the side, which made him a little dizzy for some reason, which made him giggle.

“Because it’s a gay bar.”

Draco blinked. “It'sh a what? But....” Draco tried to gather his thoughts and think of a pertinent question, but his brain seemed to have gone a little fuzzy too. “ _Why_ is it a gay bar?” he managed weakly

“Because this, you idiot.”

And then Blaise was leaning in, and was kissing him, and Draco forgot how to breathe for a moment.

He probably should have been a bit quicker to react, but the thing was, he was really feeling quite fuzzy now, and also, there was something rough and strong about Blaise’s lips that was oddly not entirely unpleasant, which explained why it took a few moments before he was able to actually push Blaise away. He tried to think of some suitable response.

“Fzmgl?” he said.

“Come on, Draco, you can’t tell me this comes as a huge surprise.”

Draco’s thoughts finally rearranged themselves into something like coherence. “You’re gay?”

Blaise stared at him. “Uh, yes? I thought I made it quite obvious.”

“But… I am…. I mean, I’m not…”

“Oh, come on, Draco, of course you are. I mean, sure, I get why you don’t want the whole school to know, but…”

“Blaise, no, really, I’m not, I swear!”

“Draco, honestly, you really don't need to keep this up. I won't tell anyone. But I've noticed the way you look at me. And don’t get me started on your whole obsession with Harry Potter.”

Draco suddenly felt very, very thirsty. Fortunately, there was still some of his drink left. “I am not obsessed with Potter,” he tried to say in a manly, commanding voice. It came out as more of a squeak.

“Clearly.” Blaise rolled his eyes. “And Pansy Parkinson is the love of your life.” His sarcasm was palpable. Yes, well, Blaise might have had a point there, Pansy was… well, not exactly perfect, but… The Potter thing, obviously, _that_ was nonsense. Obviously. Not to mention that, alright, he may have looked at Zabini a few time, but that was really just because there was something inherently pleasing about the deep rich colour of his skin, and nothing else.

“So basically, here’s my offer.” Blaise was leaning in real close, and Draco could feel his breath on his skin, which made him shiver for some reason. That was the moment when he realised his leather trousers were _much_ too tight, and in fact had been for a while, and that was just terribly embarrassing, especially since now it seemed that Blaise’s hand was on his thigh and very slowly moving upwards. His voice was low and rumbly and almost purring. “We ditch the others, we go find somewhere private, and I promise to do my best to make you forget Harry Potter ever existed.”

“I have to go to the loo.” Draco said, abruptly standing up. “I really, really have to go.” Not waiting for a reply from Blaise, he stumbled out of the booth, somehow managed to make it to the wall without either falling down or looking too clownish, and then mercifully there was a corridor which was just great, all he needed really was a few minutes to think and he'll be able to figure out how he could explain to Blaise that this was all a ridiculous misunderstanding and everything would be right again.

There was a door. He pushed it. 

It wasn't the right door. Draco was in some sort of storage rooms, full of crates and empty bottles and dustbins. Very full dustbins that smelled absolutely foul, which was really unfortunate because there seemed to be something really wrong with his stomach now. Actually, he felt like he was about to be very sick indeed.

There was another door, one that looked like it led outside. Outside seemed like such a good idea at that point. Good, clean air, that was all he needed. Blindly, he pushed the door open, and stepped out into thin drizzle. 

It turned out cold air - and colder rain - really was effective. He took a few deep breaths, and the world slowly seemed to stop spinning. Good. He could already think a lot better. So much better, in fact, that when the door clicked quietly shut being him, he realised at once how completely, monumentally _fucked_ he was.

He turned around to check anyway, but yes, obviously, this was a door that wasn't designed to be opened from the outside. Naturally. Otherwise anyone could get in and steal whatever they wanted. It was quite logical. He understood this quite clearly, which made it quite strange that he still somehow found himself fumbling frantically at the door, swearing madly, for the best part of a minute. The door, naturally, stayed obstinately shut. Kicking at it didn't seem to be much help either.

Draco took a deep breath. Fine. So he was stuck outside in some small dirty muggle street. In the rain. This was not an inextricable problem. All he had to do was find the entrance to the bar, march back in, subdue Zabini with a few well chosen words, demand his wand back, Disapparate the hell out of here and forget anything happened. Extremely easy.

The only problem was the Zabini part of it. Just thinking about him made Draco cringe with embarrassment. But surely, the best thing was to confront him openly, demand an apology and then graciously offer his forgiveness in return. It was the manly thing to do. Definitely the Malfoy thing to do.

Unless -and this seemed like _such_ a better idea at the time-, he could get out of facing Zabini altogether by making his way to the Ministry of Magic and Floo-ing back to the Three Broomsticks. Then he'd get back to school, spend the night happily in his own bed without having to think about anything or talk to anyone at all, and get his wand back tomorrow, when he'd feel much more rested and it would be so much easier to deal with this. 

Later, when he thought back on The Tequila Incident, as he came to think of it, he realised this was the moment he had made the biggest mistake of the night: ever thinking he had the slightest chance of finding the Ministry of Magic wandless and deep in the middle of muggle London, without the smallest idea where he was or how to get there.


	2. Chapter 2

It was raining, a fine, cold rain, just one step away from the snow that had been falling earlier. It made the pavement darkly reflective, the neon lights of Leicester Square flickering at his feet in broken rainbows.

And that suited Harry’s mood perfectly. 

If he was perfectly honest with himself, he knew he was being grotesquely melodramatic, but he felt he deserved a few self-indulgent moments of feeling sorry for himself. His life was such an incredible mess, sometimes. And it wasn’t easy to talk about it to anyone, especially not to Ron, who made no qualms about expressing just how irritating he found Harry when he was in one of his moods. Or to Hermione, who always tried to be so patient and kind and understanding with him, and somehow always managed to make it even worse.

So now he had this new thing. He’d come here and spend a few hours mingling with muggles, blessedly anonymous in a world that had never heard of Voldemort or Harry Potter, and he’d try to imagine what his life would have been like if the letter from Hogwarts had never come and he’d been allowed to live his life as a normal, boring person. He’d tried explaining it to on and Hermione, and that had gone about as well as expected.

“Are you saying you don’t want to be a wizard, Harry?” had asked Ron, crinkling his nose. “That sounds pretty dumb to me. I mean, who’d want to live like a muggle?”

“There’s nothing wrong with living like a muggle, Ron. But yes, Harry, I know being the Boy-who-lived can be a bit much sometimes, but when you think about it logically..."

“Hermione, please, for the love of god, can you stop being so logical for once?” 

That had shut her up. And Harry had left in a huff. And now he was here, getting rained on, oozing self-pity from every pore of his skin, and even though he knew exactly how ridiculous he was being, there was something very satisfying about it. 

That being said, he was getting absolutely drenched. He should probably go sit somewhere and have something warm to drink. 

Except that he didn’t really want to go sit on his own either. It was so annoying, the way everyone in the world seemed to have paired off except him. Couples everywhere, even Ron and Hermione, all happy and cuddly, while he… He kicked forlornly at what looked like a scrunched up paper bag on the floor, and actually turned out to be a much heavier and harder piece of concrete. 

Fuck, that hurt. He had the worse fucking luck in the history of the world. He pushed a strand of cold, damp hair out of his face and sneezed. His glasses instantly fogged up.

Right, that was it. He was definitely going to find somewhere to sit, somewhere warm and out of the rain. Somewhere with food, he amended, as his stomach growled. He started striding purposefully in the direction of the Burger King. 

And that’s when he noticed Draco Malfoy, sitting on the long concrete bench surrounding the small park in the centre of the square, head bowed, long blond hair dripping wet, looking utterly miserable.

Draco Malfoy. He felt that familiar weird fluttery sensation in the pit of his stomach, that second of shock like suddenly looking down from a great height he always felt whenever he saw Malfoy at school. His stupid body reacting in ways he had no control over.

His first instinct was to turn tail and leave. But he was curious. He had to know.

He walked up to Draco. “What on earth are you doing here, Malfoy?”

Draco looked up, very slowly. 

“Of course. Harry bloody Potter. Figures.”

“What?”

“I was just sitting there and wondering how this day could possibly get any worse. And then you turn up.” Draco locked eyes with him. “Eight million people in London, and _you_ turn up.”

“Well… sorry, I guess. Why are you here? Where is all your little group?” Draco was never alone, never. He always was at the center of a gaggle of smug Slytherins, looking like he owned the school. And there he was, alone and wet, wearing muggle clothes and the most aggravated expression he had ever seen on a human being. “What are you doing in London?”

“Having a fucking party, you idiot, what does it look like?” snarled Draco. “Do I look like I want to be here? Now will you kindly fuck off and leave me here to freeze to death in peace?”

“Why would you die, Malfoy?”

“God, of all the idiots… Because I’m stuck here, in the middle of muggle London, and I have no idea where I am.”

“You’re in Leicester Square.”

“For fuck’s sake, Potter, I know, I can read.”

Harry tried again. “So why are you sitting outside in the rain?”

“Because it’s fun. What do you think, you ass?”

"Are you waiting for someone ?"

"Yes. I was waiting for Prince Charming to come save me, and lucky for me, there you are. Now leave me alone."

The stream of sarcasm and insults sounded very familiar, but somehow Harry could tell Draco's heart wasn't in it. His lips were blue with cold.

“Well, I was actually going to go grab a burger, myself. Do you want to come?”

"No."

"Come on, it'll be warm."

Draco hesitated visibly. "You're not dressed for this weather," added Harry. Malfoy was wearing some kind of really stylish black coat that didn't seem to be doing a great job of keeping the rain out. His lips were blue. "Come on, Malfoy, I won't leave you alone until you come with me."

"You are the most annoying person in the history of the universe, you know that, Potter?"

"Yes." He held out his hand for Malfoy who, predictably, sneered at it in contempt, and got up on his own.

"Just one thing, first. What, exactly, is a 'burger', and is there any alcohol in it?"

Harry grinned. Trust Malfoy to be even more clueless than Ron when it came to muggle habits. "It's food, it's nice, and no, I can guarantee you, there's no alcohol."

* * *

"This is absolutely foul," said Draco, though a mouthful of fries.

"Then stop eating them."

"Can't. But I'll have you know, Potter," Draco continued, waving a fried potato to emphasise his point, "that this isn't my fault. I'm drunk. Clearly, I have disgusting tastes when I'm drunk." He seemed to have perked up considerably since he had come in from the cold.

"You're drunk?"

"Yes, fairly." Draco giggled, then clapped a hand on his mouth. "Merlin, do I giggle when I'm drunk?"

"I don't know. You tell me." Harry was watching Draco in fascination. This was so completely unlike Malfoy that it was deeply disturbing. He was leaning back on the plastic-covered seat lazily, looking a lot more relaxed than Harry had ever seen him, and the clothes he was wearing... God, Harry hadn't seen Draco wear anything that tight, apart from his seeker's uniform, and at least he wore robes over that. It was all terribly distracting. 

"Well, to be honest, this is the first time I've ever been drunk, so I really don't know either."

"So, do you want to tell me what you're doing in Leicester Square on your own when you're supposed to be in Hogsmeade?"

"How about you? Aren't you supposed be at school as well? What happened to following rules like a good little Gryffindor?"

"I wanted to get away."

"Yes, and do you want to know the sad thing?" Draco sighed dramatically. "You'll probably get away with it. MacGonagall will be all 'oh, poor little Harry, he just needed a bit of time on his own', whereas me, it's going to be 'four billion points from Slytherin and your Head Boy badge, please, mister Malfoy.' Life is so unfair." He grabbed another fry. "You want to know what happened? It was very simple. We just wanted to have a little fun. Because Hogsmeade is the most boring place ever. So we decided we'd go have a drink in London."

"Who's we?"

"Oh, you know. The usual." Draco waved his hand vaguely. "Nitt. Zabini. Greengrass. Pansy. The ones who have their Licences."

"Oh, yeah. Your little Slytherin gang."

"You're one to talk, with your two bodyguards."

"What, Ron and Hermione?... They're not... They're my friends!"

"Well, I'm sorry it comes as such a surprise to you, Potter, but I have friends too. You're going to finish those?" he asked, pointing at Harry's chips.

"No. Trade you against your whopper."

"Fine. I'm not eating that thing without a knife and fork anyway." Malfoy wrinkled his nose. "It's disgusting."

"Your loss," said Harry, taking a bite. "Why do you have to be so damn prissy all the time?"

"I don't know. The real question is how come you don't have any manners, Potter?" smirked Draco, picking up one of Harry's fries and delicately biting into it.

"Anyway. To come back to the point. Your friends aren't with you anymore?"

"Oh, well done, I'm absolutely in awe of your powers of observation. Things happened. I may have had a little too much to drink and kind of got locked out of the bar. And then I may have gotten the tiniest bit lost. And the problem, you see, is that Zabini's got my wand."

"What? Why?"

"It's a bit complicated. Hey, Potter, did you know Zabini is gay?"

"Malfoy, _everybody_ knows that."

"I didn't," said Draco darkly. "Anyway. Where was I? Yes. I tried to get to the Ministry, obviously, but that underground train thing doesn't work properly. First there was that infernal contraption that stole all the muggle money I had, and when when I finally managed to get on that damn train - which, may I add, is very smelly - it said something about 'disruptions on the Northern Line' and it stopped here."

" _You_ took the tube?"

"Yes. What do you think I am, stupid? I know there's a station not far from the Ministry. Westminster. See, I can deal with stupid muggle London. No matter what my father says."

"Clearly." Harry raised his eyebrows. "That's why you ended up looking like a drowned kitten on a bench in Leicester Square."

"I did not," Draco said with great dignity, "look like a drowned kitten."

Harry smiled. "You're a lot more bearable when you're drunk, you know."

"I was going to say the same thing about you. You almost seem acceptable, when I'm drunk."

"You're just saying that because you want me to get you back to school, aren't you?"

Draco thought for a moment. "Yes, probably. That didn't sound like a very _me_ thing to say."

"Why didn't you just get your wand back from Blaise?"

"Because, Potter, Zabini. Kissed. Me."

Harry felt his jaw fall open. The fact Blaise Zabini liked boys wasn't exactly news to Harry, since he'd at some point made it very clear to Harry that he was interested if Harry was, but that Blaise would have the balls to kiss Draco, of all people... That was unexpected. More than that, it was irritating as hell.

If he'd have any real doubts about it, he could put them to rest. The weird feeling he had whenever he saw Malfoy was definitely what he had feared. Somehow, somewhere along the line, he had developed a massive crush on his arch-enemy.

He was jealous. There, that was the truth. He was jealous Blaise had dared kiss Draco.

It was dreadful.

"So what did you do?" he asked.

"I left."

"Oh, so you don't feel that way about him, then?"

"Of course not." Draco looked at him suspiciously. "I thought you'd be more shocked."

Harry shrugged. "Why would I care who you kiss?" he said, trying to sound casual.

"Hmpf. There's no food left."

"Yeah, I noticed. So should we get back, then?"

"Probably. What time is it?"

Harry glanced at his watch. "It's... Fuck, it's quarter past seven!"

Draco giggled again. "We are so screwed."

"It's past curfew."

"Yes.

"Fuck."

"Indeed."

"What are we going to do?" 

Draco was grinning. "Depends. Do you have any money on you?"

"Yes, why?"

"Well, since it seems to me we're fucked either way, we might as well take advantage of the situation. Do you think there are any bars around here?"

"Draco!"

"What? Do you have to be so Gryffindorish and straight-laced all the time? I thought you loved breaking rules."

"What about you? You're Head Boy, aren't you?"

"Yes, well, Slytherins are meant to bend rules. And anyway, it's too late too be worrying about that." Draco leaned towards Harry, elbows on the table, with an intent expression. "Listen carefully, Potter. This is really important. In muggle bars, they have these absolutely wonderful things called margaritas. I suggest we go find some."

It was a bad idea. Worse than that, it was a terrible idea. The worse idea in the history of ideas, in fact.

But Draco was looking at him with a smile, and his wet hair was curling a little around his ears as it dried, and there was no way on earth he could say no.

* * *

"See? What did I tell you? Those are fantastic," said Draco, licking his lips. Lips that were pink and delicately bowed and shining with moisture, and oh God, he was staring, wasn't he? It was a good thing Draco was too absorbed in his drink to notice.

"Yeah, it's nice." He took a sip, trying to distract himself. They had found a small bar in one of the side streets, one that was so full of students no one thought or cared to ask their age. "I don't know whether you should really drink much more, though..." _For my sake as much as yours_ , he added mentally.

"And why the hell not? Do you have any idea how bad my day has been?"

"So, what, is Blaise not a good kisser, then?" 

Draco sputtered in his drink and laughed. "That's hardly the issue, though, is it?"

"I don't know. Did you mind that much?" It really would have been much more prudent to leave it alone, but for the life of him Harry couldn't help himself. 

"Well. It came as a bit of a shock."

"The only reason I ask is because he... Well, this one time, he tried to kiss me too, so..."

"What? That sneaky bastard! How dare he talk about _my_ obsession..." Draco shut his mouth hastily.

"Obsession with what?"

"Nothing," said Draco firmly. He had turned distinctly pink. "So what, did you kiss him back?"

"No. Did you?"

"I don't know how this detail could have escaped your notice, but he's a boy."

"And?"

"I don't usually go around kissing boys."

"So what, you're not into boys at all, you mean?"

"Why does everyone seem to think I'm gay today? I have a girlfriend, for Merlin's sake!"

"Oh, sure. Pansy," snorted Harry.

"Yes. Who is very female. So clearly, you see, I can't possibly like boys."

"Yes, but the thing is, Draco... mostly, you seem to be spending your time trying to avoid her, don't you?"

"I have no idea what you mean by that."

"Well, I mean, she's always after you, isn't she? And Hermione heard her tell Zoe how she feels like you don't care at all about her sometimes."

"Do you people have nothing better to do than chronicle my personal life?" Draco raked his hand through his hair in irritation. It made a whole chunk stick out at a weird angle. It was cute. "Alright, fine, Pansy can be fairly annoying at times. She's very clingy. I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"I'm just curious, that's all. I don't think there's anything wrong with fancying boys, really."

Draco looked at him ruefully. "It's all so easy for you, isn't it?"

"What? What is easy for me, exactly? Have you noticed how fucked up my life is?"

Draco snorted. "Please. You're Harry Potter. Everybody's favourite person. You can do whatever you damn please."

"It really doesn't feel like that, you know?"

"But it's true. You keep doing exactly what you like and no one cares. Whereas me..."

"Well, what's stopping you?"

"Well, for instance, how pleased do you think my _father_ would be if I went around kissing boys?

"Yes, but the thing is, Draco, the thing is... How can I put this?" Harry struggled to find the right words. This was important. "Your father," he said finally, "is a dick."

Draco choked on his drink.

"No, I'm serious, Draco. He is."

"You can't say that!"

"It's the truth. I mean, you probably know him better than I do, but I've met him. It's quite obvious. Your father is a dick."

Draco looked at him in silence. His expression was unreadable. Harry braced himself for Draco's inevitable anger.

Then, incredibly, Draco started laughing. He hid his face behind one hand, as if shocked by his own reaction, but it was uncontrollable. He took one more look at Harry and his laughter redoubled until he was almost bent in half.

"Are you alright?" asked Harry.

Draco raised a hand, as though asking for time, then with a visible effort, managed to regain control, breathing hard.

"You know, I think this is the first time I've ever seen you laugh. I mean, at school you spend a lot of time snickering, but I don't think I've ever seen you actually laugh like a human being."

"I don't snicker."

"Of course you do."

"Maybe. But that's only because you give me a lot to snicker at."

Harry spread his hands. "Glad to be of use."

"But all right, I get what you mean about my father. I guess he can be a bit much, sometimes."

"That's putting it mildly. All I'm saying is that you can't live your whole life as though he's standing right behind your shoulder."

“I see.” Draco was looking at him with the strangest expression, under half-lidded eyes. It made Harry a little uncomfortable, if he was honest. “So basically, what you’re telling me is that I should try kissing more boys because my father is a little over-bearing?”

“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds a bit…”

“All right.”

“What?”

“I said all right. So, what about it, Potter? D’you want to try it?”

“God, Draco…!”

Draco sighed dramatically. “Typical Gryffindor. All talk and no balls.”

There was no way Harry could let that pass. Really, he told himself, this had nothing to do with any crush he might or might not harbour for Draco. It was a question of house pride. He couldn't let Gryffindor's honour be impugned. And yes, it's true that Draco was also pouting in an incredibly appealing manner, and really, when else was he going to get a chance like this, with Draco Malfoy, of all people?

Tentatively, Harry leaned forward, keeping his hands in his lap. He felt terribly awkward and uncoordinated, but Draco had a slight smile on his lips, and that was enough to give him the courage to cross those last few inches and press his mouth to Draco.

Draco's lips were soft under his, and tasted faintly of lime and salt, and his eyes were closed now. Harry didn't dare push much further, couldn't even believe Draco had let him go that far. He broke the kiss regretfully.

"So, how was that?" he asked.

"Terrible." Harry's heart sank. "Take off your glasses."

"What?"

"Take off your glasses, you idiot."

Harry swallowed and put his glasses down on the table.

And then Draco grabbed him, was kissing him, hard. Draco's hand came up, grabbing him by the back of his neck forcefully, crushing Harry against him, and God, he was parting his lips, and forcing his tongue past Harry's mouth, and it was the hottest, sexiest thing ever, and when Draco finally let go, Harry felt undone, breathless, unsated. He blinked.

"You see? _That_ was a kiss." Draco smirked. "You kiss like a girl, Potter."

"What? I do not! I was just... I didn't want to scare you off!"

Draco looked at him, eyebrows raised. A challenging smile played on his lips. “You think _you_ could scare me?” 

So naturally, that meant Harry had to kiss him again. A lot harder, this time.

* * *

The next half hour or so is a bit of a blur in Harry’s memory. What he does remember is being kindly but politely being invited to leave the bar, it being, according to the waiter, a little too early for this kind of behaviour, and could they please try to find a room somewhere if they were going to make out like teenagers. Harry remembers telling him that actually, they were teenagers, so it was all right, with Draco collapsed with laughter hanging on to his arm for sheer life.

Draco was still laughing when Harry took them back to Hogsmeade. Then came a very instructive conversation about various ways into Hogwarts, which ones were watched and which ones were practicable. It turned out that there were a lot more than the ones shown on the Marauder’s Map, including three that led directly into the dungeons. In the end, they decided to settle on one they both knew, the one behind the Gregory the Smarmy on the fifth floor, a comfortable distance from both the Slytherin and Gryffindor common rooms and therefore safest.

Getting back was easy, although it took a lot longer than he should have. They both kept stumbling on rocks and crashing into walls, which reduced them to tears of helpless laughter. There were also a few instances where Harry - he will go to his grave swearing it was purely accidental - kept falling into Draco, trapping him against the wall, and giving him one more excuse to kiss Draco, because really, in that position, it would be silly not to, wouldn't it?

No. Getting back was easy. Trouble only started once they arrived at Hogwarts. 

Draco had come out of the secret passage giggling like a first-year girl. Harry couldn't let that pass, had to let him know, which led to Draco proving he was most certainly not an eleven year old girl by pressing him against the cold stone wall and kissing him like his life depended on it.

"You realise," said Draco, breaking the kiss much too soon for Harry, "that we will have to stop doing this very soon."

"Hmmm," said Harry, nuzzling Draco's neck.

"I'm serious, Potter, if you do anything like this in front of the others, I will have to kill you."

"All right. So basically, I have to make the most of this right now, don't I?"

He flipped them around, so now Draco was the one with his back to the wall and kissed him again. Draco wrapped both arms around his neck and angled his face towards his, deepening the kiss, opening his mouth in the most needy, enticing way.

Harry's hands fell to Draco's waist, pulling on his sweater, slipped his fingers underneath to feel Draco's skin. Draco shuddered, and Harry felt goosebumps erupting over the smooth skin of Draco's belly, silk over steel muscles. Very tentatively, he slid his hand slowly downwards, reaching Draco's belt. He held his breath, not daring to go further at first, not sure whether Draco would even let him, then gathering his courage, slid his hand further down, to cup the bulge between Draco's legs. Draco was rock hard. And that simple realisation, the feel of Draco in his hand, the little mewling sound Draco made in his mouth when he closed his finger over the length of him were enough to make him feel like he could come right there, just from the thought of it.

And that was when, suddenly, the world went dark. A shadow had fallen over them. Harry heard Draco gasp in horror.

"What on earth do you two think you're doing?"

A very familiar voice. A rich, dark voice, one that had always chilled Harry to the core. 

He turned around very slowly. He already knew who he would see.

"Mister Malfoy, mister Potter. In my office, if you please," said Professor Snape.


End file.
